


Goodnight and Go

by incogneat_oh



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Batdad, Gen, batkids falling asleep everywhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-03 19:29:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8727382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incogneat_oh/pseuds/incogneat_oh
Summary: A series of connected drabbles about the Batkids + sleep.





	

The Cave is quiet and still. Peaceful, even, which is not a word Batman applies easily to any space usually containing his children.

But he’s glad of the quiet; nights like tonight, where he is world-weary and bone-tired, he needs to work in silence for a few short hours, and then collapse in a hopefully dreamless sleep. Hopes that Alfred, merciful, wonderful Alfred, will only wake him from in order to feed him a 2pm breakfast.

He’s so focussed on his work, the rhythmic click-clacking of the keyboard, that it takes him a little while to wonder at the oddness of it. The out-of-place silence.

Damian, at least, is in bed. Alfred too, if the man has any sense. But Nightwing– Dick– had come back to the Cave, ten? fifteen? minutes before. Exhaustion in every motion, he’d greeted Bruce, sounding subdued. Then he’d gone to shower and change.

But he would have heard Dick go upstairs, and even if he’d stayed down here, he would definitely be bothering Bruce by now.

He sighs. And he’s not sure if it’s his back or the suit that creaks when he stands, but he cracks his knuckles and straightens up, on a search for his eldest kid. 

The showers are empty, but the faint smell of steam and Dick’s shampoo still linger. But there is no sign of the man himself.

It’s possible he just didn’t  _notice_ Dick go upstairs. Any sensible person would be up in bed now…

But he wouldn’t be Batman if he weren’t thorough, so he heads over to the lockers next.

His son is half-leaned into his locker, wearing a baggy pair of sweats and a tshirt. He’s still, and there’s something stiff and uncomfortable in his posture.

“Dick–?” Bruce says, moving closer. “Jason graffiti the inside of your locker again?”

When Dick doesn’t move, or respond, Bruce frowns. Wonders what he’s said or done to especially offend Dick lately. 

And then he hears the snore.

“Dick!” he says, touching a hand to his back. “Up and at ‘em.”

“Wha–  _ow_ –” head on the top of the locker, of course, and blearily, “I wasn’t ‘sleep.” 

Blinking sleepily at Bruce, one hand rubbing absently at his head, he looks confused. Eyes flicking to the locker, to the Nightwing suit tossed over the bench. To Bruce.

He was just the same as a kid. Refusing to admit he was tired, refusing to  _sleep_ for as long as Bruce didn’t. Stubborn as hell, sure that if  _Bruce_ was awake, then he should be too.

And the thought of that is warm in Bruce’s chest when he says, “You haven’t changed at all, Dick,” and, if his voice comes out a little  _too_ fond, it’s not like Dick’s at the top of his game to notice.

“I was,” Dick says. And apparently can’t think of a follow-up, giving up immediately. Still rubbing his head from where he’d hit it. 

Bruce squeezes the kid’s shoulder, which he takes as an invitation. Unselfconscious and without hesitation, he curls against Bruce, pressing his shower-damp hair into Bruce’s neck. He manually manipulates Bruce’s arm into half hugging him.

_I was getting there_ , Bruce thinks, feeling a smile pull at his lips, pressing Dick tighter against him.

Dick makes a sound somewhere between a sigh and a yawn, murmurs, “ ‘m pretty tired, Dad.”

“Me too,” Bruce agrees, low, like a secret. While Dick leans heavily against him, arms raised to return the tired, easy embrace. And then, “Don’t think I’m going to carry you upstairs.”

There’s a laugh pressed against his suit, an, “I know, I know.” Not drawing back quite yet. There’s a pause; one Bruce doesn’t like. “I mean, you’re pretty old now, so I wouldn’t want you to pull something.”

Bruce rolls his eyes, says, “Go to bed, soldier.”

“Mm,” he hums. And then, finally stepping back, “You’re almost done down here?”

“Why?” Bruce says, raising an eyebrow. But he can’t smother his smile. “You need supervision on the stairs?”

But Dick doesn’t smile at that, says quite seriously, “You should sleep too, B. It was a rough night.”

Bruce nods; he’ll head up in another quarter hour. “Goodnight, Dick,” he says.

“Sleep well, Bruce,” and this time Dick  _does_ smile, a tired approximation of his easy grin. And Bruce stands and watches him go.

—

The last thing Damian remembers is the sound of his Father’s voice and the powerful rumble of the Batmobile beneath them. 

And then. The cool air of the Cave. The faint crinkle of paper beneath him, and– “Damian. Come on, kiddo.” He opens his eyes, shifting on the cot. Father’s above him, says, “You fell asleep in the car.”

Tt. Like he couldn’t have figured that out for himself. 

He still feels warm and content, half asleep. Eyes closing again. He is relaxed in his father’s presence.

And, “I think,” the man says, “It’s time to get you into your pyjamas and to bed, hmm?”

He mumbles an agreement, and swings his legs over the side of the cot, sitting up. Someone had already taken off his boots, gauntlets, belt and cape. And Father’s hand settles on his shoulder, steadying him while he fumbles tiredly at his tunic. 

And then Father’s gone, and Damian’s eyelids are still so  _heavy_ , but he perseveres, shrugging off the tunic and letting it fall behind him. He’s wrestling with his armoured undershirt when Father returns, helping him peel off the last of it. And– “Arms up,” and Damian has never been a child in the ordinary sense, but he wonders if this is what it’s like. To have a parent help dress you in clean pyjamas.

He wonders how much practice Father had at this, with Grayson. 

Something flannel is pressed into his arms, “Pants next,” Father instructs him, and Damian knows he  _should_ be offended, but he can’t quite summon up the energy.

He does manage to click his tongue, though, but Father just laughs. He changes quickly, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand. And then–

“Hang on, I’ll just get the mask,” Father murmurs, and presses a warm, wet cloth to the edge of his domino.

Damian lifts a hand, trying to take over the task, but Father brushes him away. He peels the domino away with more gentleness than Damian could have credited to him, washing away glue residue with the cloth.

And when he’s done, Father tosses the towel back into a small ceramic bowl – _he’d come prepared_ – and then scoops him up, into his enormous arms. Says, “I’m going to carry you to bed now, Damian. You can go back to sleep.”

“I can walk,” Damian says, though in truth he is wrapping his arms tightly around Father’s neck, pressing tighter to his warmth. His eyes are closed again, and already he can feel sleep coaxing him back.

“I know,” is all Father says, from a distance.

And he’s barely awake for the walk through the hallways, doesn’t fully register Pennyworth’s presence; something about, “…uninjured, sir?” and “… so well tonight, Alfred, you would have been proud out there,” and “long past bed time, for all of us”. 

That’s around the time Damian is fed up, turning his face into Father’s chest and saying, “ _Shh_ ,” but that just earns a laugh and a pat on the back. But they start moving again, which Damian feels awfully smug about, right up until sleep swallows him completely.

—

Bruce is working late. He’s in half a business suit, which translates to a pair of very, very expensive slacks and an undershirt. He’d given up on his shirt and jacket a few hours before, tossing them to join his tie over the back of a chair. 

Alfred will probably be mad, but that is most definitely tomorrow-Bruce’s problem. Or– he checks the time– much, much later-today-Bruce’s problem. Unfortunately.

He’s been telling himself for the last two hours that he’d go to bed in a few minutes, but as soon as he thinks he’s making headway, something else grabs his attention. And so he thinks, in another few minutes. Then he’ll be ready to sleep.

He’s losing another debate with himself when he hears a scuff of bare feet on the carpet of the sitting room; and his breath catches in his throat, not for the tenth, even the hundredth time. Because he doesn’t think he’ll get over the privilege of seeing Jason grown-up.

Even when he smells faintly of cigarettes ( _two_ reasons for Alfred to be mad much, much later today), even when his hair is a disaster, when he’s wearing nothing but a grease-stained beater and a pair of plaid flannel pyjama pants a few years past their prime. When he’s days past needing a shave.

His eyes are mostly closed, his mouth turned down at the corner. He looks like hell.

And Bruce hadn’t known he was staying over tonight, but he can’t find it within himself to be anything but glad. Even though breakfast will probably end in violence. 

Jason blinks a little more awake, his mouth tilting up faintly at one side. Nodding as a greeting.

And Bruce… was going to speak, honestly he was, ask about how Jason is and if he’s hungry and if there’s something he can do to help the nightmares– but Jason does a miraculous thing. He crosses the carpet, closing the distance between them.

Then he half-collapses, half-sits on the couch by Bruce. And for a minute– more, even– he just sits there, still, shoulders slouched, facing ahead. 

But he lists to the side, tiredly. In one smooth movement, he tips himself over and smushes his face indelicately into Bruce’s hip. Eyes closed. 

And; “Jay–”

“Don’t talk,” comes the reply, firm. Muffled from couch-cushions. “You’ll  _ruin_ it.”

“Okay,” Bruce says, hand hovering over Jason’s head. Screw indecision. He settles his hand gently against Jason’s curls, rubbing briefly. 

It’s almost easy. Except that Bruce is frowning, lines across his forehead. He’s not supposed to speak, but– “Are you going to be warm enough? I can… I’ll get you a blanket?”

The boy doesn’t answer for a few minutes, shifting, getting comfortable. Head still pillowed on Bruce. “Nope,” he says, popping the  _p_. Voice rough with sleep. “This is perfect, B.”

And Bruce doesn’t have to go to bed just yet. He can last another few minutes.

—

Tim can feel the cool press of metal under his cheek. 

His neck hurts. Just not enough to move.

He’s asleep, thoughts heavy and sluggish and slow, and he’s halfway-dreaming, half-conscious of being stooped over at the console in the Cave. 

He shifts slightly. Wrapping his arms tighter around himself. In his dream, it’s warm and sunny and so bright he has to squint in the day.

And there’s grass and a stream a ways down this way, part made-up and part remembered, and he’s going there to meet someone important–

“Tim.”

A warm hand on his neck, his hair. 

He lifts his head fractionally. Squints open his eyes. 

“Tim,” the man says again. And the hand is gone from his hair when he sits up, but Bruce is still there. Manually swivelling his chair around. 

“I was jus’,” Tim slurs, avoiding the man’s very, very blue eyes. “… Work.” He blinks a few times, trying to clear his head. Then he digs his knuckles hard into the corners of his eyes, rubbing away the traces of his dream, and he twists in the chair until his spine pops. And he says, “Sorry Bruce. Didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

And Bruce says, “Why don’t we go upstairs, Tim.”

“I was actually just gonna head back home?” Tim says, only it comes out like a question. “After I finished up here, I mean.”

“It’s awfully late for that,” Bruce tells him. Brow scrunched up. And, “You have a perfectly good bed right upstairs.”

“I–” Tim starts, but Bruce is gently but firmly pulling him up from the chair. And… and he is really tired. Bruce was right; it is awfully late, it’s close to morning…

And Bruce’s hand is the good kind of heavy on his shoulder, and he can feel the warmth of it through his thin-fabric shirt, a direct contrast to the cold air of the Cave. He keeps rubbing his thumb over the seam on Tim’s shirt, partway between his shoulder and neck, and the touch is enough to keep Tim’s mouth shut. 

He’s side-by-side with Bruce on the stairs, back in the Manor, and Bruce keeps right on rubbing his thumb in that same spot, keeping the point of contact the whole way up to their bedrooms.

And they’re outside Tim’s door, Bruce’s hand releasing its gentle grip, when Tim blurts, “B?”

The man tilts his head, makes a questioning sort of  _hmm_? Hand not moving quite yet.

“What were you doing in the Cave in your pyjamas?”

Bruce’s eyes crinkle a bit at the corners, and he says, voice deep and patient and a little amused, “Looking for you, of course.”

“Oh,” Tim says, feeling very small and very important all at once. 

“Goodnight, Tim,” Bruce says, still with that not-quite-a-smile. And then, “Let me know how you go sleeping in a  _bed_  for once, hmm?”

“I will,” Tim says, even though he is almost sure Bruce is kidding, but the man is still looking at him with a sort of. Well, on anyone else, Tim would call it  _fondness._

And before Bruce leaves, so quick Tim might have imagined it, the man leans forward and presses a kiss to the crown of his head.

And he leaves Tim there in the hallway, staring after him. Then finally, he shakes himself, and goes at last to bed.

**END.**

**Author's Note:**

> Also on [tumblr.](http://incogneat-oh.tumblr.com/post/88086466372/goodnight-and-go)


End file.
